


Recoil

by abetterdaughter



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abetterdaughter/pseuds/abetterdaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most Decepticons did not have a very good idea of what Megatron's hands were like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recoil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [manxome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manxome/gifts).



Most Decepticons did not have a very good idea of what Megatron's hands were like.  

 

Most of them never thought about it.  Likely, if pressed, they would guess that his hands were scuffed and hard, battle-roughened, even careless.  Most of them probably didn't care.  

 

Vos knew better.  

 

He can still feel them, sometimes, the memory of that first day on the firing range wrapping around him like a physical touch.  He had already transformed, waiting quietly for Megatron's arrival--he'd known why he was there, what purpose he served.  He tensed almost imperceptibly as Megatron's fingers drew light down his barrel, could feel the strangely heavy weight of his optics.  

 

"Up," Megatron said after a moment, his tone brisk and a hand held out imperiously, and Vos had taken embarrassing long seconds to understand.  He'd transformed reluctantly and risen, taking that hand and feeling oddly smaller on his own two feet with his fingers curled in Megatron's grip.  Megatron had looked him over, his gaze bright as he nodded to himself in some private satisfaction, and it was a long moment before he spoke again.

 

"You are a fine and dangerous weapon," he'd said, "but that is not all you are.  Do not forget."  Vos had only been able to stare and say nothing.  

 

Once he'd transformed again, after only a slight hesitation, Megatron had taken him up with those huge, strangely gentle hands, adjusting his bipod and settling him against the shooting stand.  Then Megatron had slid his body against Vos'--his shoulder against Vos' recoil pad and his fingertips smoothing firm and slow against Vos' lower receiver as his other hand wrapped around the pistol grip, slipping into the trigger guard like a fond caress.  His cheek was suddenly pressed snug to Vos' side, one optic at the sight as he curled in against Vos like a great predatory animal, patient and radiating heat.  

 

"Relax," he said, like that was possible with him venting warm air against Vos' bolt guideway, and fired.

 

The shot tore through the target high and to the side as Megatron moved to rock with the impact of Vos's body, slamming into his shoulder with the force of the recoil.  Vos felt the solidity of him and the yielding give, the balance of both necessary to keep from breaking, or at least from injuring one of them.  He didn't give Vos time to hesitate, adjusting and sliding his fingertips an agonizing few inches higher on Vos' barrel before firing again.  

 

They fell into a rhythm, the shot and the shift, Megatron supporting him as he fired.  Vos could feel the stillness of Megatron's palms, how Megatron paused between shots to let his barrel cool, kept himself snug against Vos so he moved smoothly with the impact instead of jarring Vos into the flat plate of his shoulder.  Vos was wrapped in hands that knew what it was like to be a weapon and what it was like to be more, and he sank into them willingly, finally allowing himself to ease.  After that it was one long dream of movement and power--Vos _burned_ , at his muzzle and barrel and every place Megatron touched him as he felt the weight of each bullet filling his chamber and exploding out of him in a burst of heat and light to rip into the dead center of the target like a blossoming star.

 

It was over so quickly but also seemed to go on forever, shot after shot, and it was only after Vos' magazine was spent and a thin trail of smoke curled up from his muzzle that he let himself shake.  Megatron waited for the few moments Vos needed to collect himself, and held out a hand again when Vos transformed and his wavering knees nearly crumpled under his slight weight.

 

"We work well together," Megatron said, pleased and possessive--not as one addressing an instrument, but as speaking to a valued ally.  Vos knew the difference, could taste it, sharp as gunpowder in the back of his throat.  He doesn't remember anything else that was said--he barely remembers leaving the firing range, in a daze of shivering fierce satisfaction, his fingers curled into his palms and his optics burning

 

Most Decepticons had no idea what Megatron's hands were like, and Vos would never forget.  

 

 

 


End file.
